The Witcher: Philippa's Grace

To Begin

What is destiny?

Those of the fatalistic mind might see it as the unchangeable direction of every man's life and the world. The path that was set before anything existed. The path that one is on no matter if they want to be or not.

Those of the religious mind might see it as the undeniable and perfect will of the gods. Their vision for humanity, that exists is a part of. The many pieces in their game of chess.

Those of the skeptical mind might think destiny is nothing more than superstition. An excuse for people to not be responsible for their actions. The weak willed man's crutch; determinism and piousness.

These ways of thinking fundamentally misunderstand destiny. Destiny is not set in any time. It is before and after, malleable in the past and present. It's reactive. Cause and effect, action and reaction. Destiny and life, and life is destiny.

Geralt of Rivia was a man who didn't think much of destiny, but destiny though much of Geralt.

He moved through his life, thinking not about the greater picture. He wanted to just Be. Maybe that is why he always found himself at the intersection of history and change. Because he was one of the few who understood that to think of destiny is antithetical to one's experience within it.

Geralt might not have thought much about destiny.

But Destiny thought of Geralt of Rivia
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"Are you going to be in a pissy mood all morning?"

Geralt looked over at his aging companion. Vesemir was one of the few who could put his acerbic wit to task. Hell, he was the one who taught him it.

"I am NOT in a pissy mood" Geralt replied, turning back to look at the road ahead of them as they trotted toward the edge of town. Vesemir just let out a bark of laughter and shook his head.

They had been on Yennefer's trail for close to 2 months now, and one thing after another seemed to get in their way. First, the town that she told Geralt to meet her in had been razed to the ground. He wasn't sure by which side of the war, not that it mattered. Second, White Orchard, the lovely hamlet they seemed to find themselves in, had a Griffin problem. Geralt of course has put down many Griffins in his time, but this was an unneeded distraction. But as fate never seemed to be on his side, said Griffin was tied to his current goal of finding his long lost lover.

The commander of the local Nilfgaardian forces, one Peter Saar Gwynleve, tasked him with dispatching the Griffin in trade for information on Yennefer's whereabouts. Geralt had been a Witcher long enough to be accustomed to the 'favor for a favor' game, but that didn't mean he liked it. To him, this Griffin was a waste of time and resources. You'd think a garrison of Nilfgaardian forces would be able to handle ONE Griffin, but alas, here he was, on the road to the some local herbalist about buckthorn

"Wolf, I've known you your whole life. I know the tell tale signs of you sulking. Didn't even need to use my Withcer senses.'' Vesemir teased.

"Maybe all your senses are going in your old age." Geralt shot back, not turning from the road ahead. Vesemir smiled, knowing there was much bite in Geralt's words.

"I know you're tired of the run around," Vesemir said sincerely. "But we do this, we might be put on the right path. Better than scouring every field for strands of black hair."

Geralt gave a non-committal sound. Vesemir had a point though; this was the first hard lead they had on the sorceress in a while. Like it or not, it was the best they had to go on. The herbalist's shack came into view. It was small and a bit dilapidated. One might think it was abandoned, if it wasn't for the tended garden outside and if Geralt didn't hear and smell signs of life inside. They rode up, and dismounted. Vesemir opted to stay outside and keep watch for any trouble.